


Reluctant Alumnus

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: KNBxNBA, Other, Threesome - M/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-12
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-10-09 00:15:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17396468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: It had to be there, or it had to be in the Garden, with Tatsuya, the way things used to be and the way two years ago it seemed like it would be and should be.





	Reluctant Alumnus

Tatsuya’s no genius lip-reader, but he can make out the phrase on Taiga’s mouth without subtitles or audio. It was always going to end there, in LA or the Garden, he says, and a look of understanding cuts across Daiki’s face and the sentiment knives Tatsuya’s heart. It’s as if his heart were a fish too weak to flop and make a break for the water, waiting to be gutted, because he saw this coming. It was already headed this way, Daiki shaving off the rust and immersing himself in the zone before he can oxidize again, meeting Taiga possession for possession one last time. It had to be there, or it had to be in the Garden, with Tatsuya, the way things used to be and the way two years ago it seemed like it would be and should be, but here in hindsight Tatsuya can say he probably wouldn’t deserve even as an apology gift from a management team that treated him like shit. And seeing Taiga say that is as if the fish knife turned out to be a fucking chainsaw. Tatsuya’s not prepared for that.

He doesn’t cry, but that’s not something to really be proud of. He’s alone and the floor-to-ceiling window is hidden behind the curtain and he’d be out of sight anyway, but his shoulders are tense and he feels his face crumple in pain like the back bumper of a car rear-ended at a sudden red light.

Tatsuya rarely lets himself imagine this; when his mind starts to stray that way he starts talking with Daiki about the quality of the local grocery stores or, if he’s not around, opens up a new browser tab and scrolls through the SI archives again. But when he’s already there, it’s too late. For a second, Daiki in a Knicks uniform with him, the two of them taking on Taiga together, posing for pictures afterward, the three of them, Taiga still in a Bulls uniform—or the Lakers like now, or the Clippers, or anyone else. Fuck. He’d been so good all game at being happy for them and being caught up in watching the two of them compete (he will have to concede to Daiki that, yes, the custom wall-sized television might have been worth it for the immersion even if it’s tacky as fuck and heats up the room) and, for a few hours minus the commercials and halftime, not thinking about himself for once.

Tatsuya mutes the TV, but the subtitles are still scrolling at the bottom and the announcers are still talking about what Taiga and Daiki “might” have said. The images flashing across the screen are this game, and games before that, Taiga and Daiki who are younger and less scarred and burdened, Daiki’s hairline stretching forward and the crow’s feet around Taiga’s eyes disappearing and maybe, for a moment, Tatsuya can think about this. Or about the first time he’d seen them, back in Tokyo when he’d clutched the ring around his neck like a grudge, and gave up all hope that he’d ever be enough by himself as Taiga’s greatest, only rival. But then they’re playing in that first Olympics and there’s Tatsuya himself, thirteen years younger, light on his feet and strong, sending a sure pass to Taiga for him to dunk all over Daiki, and they’re talking about their year’s draft class again. Daiki out of Japan, Taiga and Tatsuya from USC and UCLA, the few other guys who haven’t given up still. All of them on draft night, Taiga’s million-dollar smile, fist-bumping Daiki in their suits and jerseys, and Tatsuya’s face folds up again (if it had ever unfolded, but maybe it’s too busy tucked up inside itself like origami).

He glances back and it’s finally on commercial, a young woman slowly stepping out of a shiny luxury car, white teeth flashing, feet stepping in perfect time, legs unblemished. She’s years away from her body protesting against what it used to do so well, or maybe she never had to push. Or maybe Tatsuya shouldn’t be projecting onto some actor like his body’s all megawatt bulbs.

A few seconds of distraction and he looks over at his phone again, the flashing LED light. New text messages, probably awkward probes and variations on lol damn dude and the still-unread messages from before the game, selfies from Taiga and Daiki smiling in the sunlight.

It hurts; it hurts that it hurts. But he can’t untangle his own wants from what Taiga and Daiki still have, and what they’ve always had but never intentionally held over him. The more he tries, the more it’s like pulling on a thread that tightens the knots until they’re almost invisibly small and far more difficult to find.

Tatsuya opens the group text. Phone cameras are so damn good now; he can see the smudge of Taiga’s tan line, lighter skin peeking out from under the collar of Daiki’s old t-shirt , Daiki’s cheek squished against Taiga’s shoulder. Close enough to touch and thousands of miles away, at the tail ends of max contracts while Tatsuya can’t get the fucking veteran’s minimum for part of a season. He closes his eyes, for what feels like an hour but is probably fifteen seconds, and tries to will himself not to check his phone.

Then it rings, and Tatsuya’s heart smashes into his ribcage like a fist into the wall. His agent wouldn’t be hearing interest this quickly, if there even is any. If there’s anything but pity, or if anyone’s thought about him at all besides himself.

It’s Taiga.

“Hey,” says Taiga.

“Hi,” says Tatsuya.

“I didn’t know—I mean, fuck, my phone’s blowing up; I can’t imagine how yours is doing.”

“It’s fine,” says Tatsuya (a steady stream of messages would qualify as blowing up for him, these days, but it’s got to be nothing compared to what Taiga’s getting, still in the league and still a star and actually at the center of all this).

“Tatsuya…”

“Look,” says Tatsuya, but he doesn’t finish the sentence, because all the rage inside of him—I’m not fragile, I’m not like that, I’m not a fucking loser—is threatening to jump its way out and he knows by now he’s going to regret it, even though that’s how he feels, because he always does.

The sounds of the locker room cut through in the background, snippets of conversation, very familiar reporters’ voices (they used to speak to Tatsuya like that, demand things from him, wait while Tatsuya spun words out of nothing).

“You there?”

“Yeah. Sorry. We can talk later, okay?”

“Yeah. I’ll call you back soon.”

*

Daiki’s back in the morning, when Tatsuya’s pretending to sleep. He should go out running now, while he’s less likely to get caught up in Daiki’s routine later and try to compete. But he needs that; he needs to prove to himself that he still can, even if this doesn’t mean shit and he’s going to lose despite Daiki’s jet lag and the toll of being midway through a real basketball season.

Daiki’s shirt smells like Taiga’s laundry detergent, and Tatsuya lets Daiki snuggle close and hold him, for now. Theg uilt and anger fall away enough, and Tatsuya doesn’t need to work to not think about all three of them on the phone last night.

Daiki’s hand rests on Tatsuya’s hip, right where it always gets sore.

“Missed you.”

Tatsuya kisses Daiki’s neck. He has no trouble falling back asleep for real.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [context](https://deadspin.com/lebron-manages-to-accidentally-torment-knicks-fans-duri-1831009575)
> 
> [more context](https://www.nytimes.com/2018/12/20/sports/lebron-draft-class-2003.html)
> 
> taiga is lebron, tatsuya is melo, and aomine is wade. somewhat metaphorically.


End file.
